


I'll catch you before you fall (EN)

by Bebec



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Challenge Response, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling Angels, Family Drama, Fear, Gen, Heaven & Hell, Hurt Lucifer, Lucifer's Fall, Memories, POV Lucifer, Past, Rebellion, Siblings, Vulnerability, the price of freedom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 03:31:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15765714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bebec/pseuds/Bebec
Summary: My son…Your splendor corrupted your wisdom; your heart became proud on account of your beauty. I threw you to the earth, I made a fire come out from you; and it consumed you, and I reduced you to ashes on the ground. In the sight of all who were watching.Not beta-checked yet.





	1. One last time

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [I'll catch you before you fall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15279207) by [Bebec](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bebec/pseuds/Bebec). 



> Here we go ! 
> 
> It's been a long time since my last publication. I didn't plan to post this today, but I'm feeling blue this evening. I can't publish anything in french for now so I thought publish something for you and me to enlighten the rest of the day. 
> 
> This story in two chapters has been written for a challenge from the "Collectif Noname" : Last moments.  
> I instantly thought about Lucifer and the Rebellion.  
> This chapter hasn't been checked yet by ma dear Beta Kittendealer who's actually writing a wonderful story for my birthday "Anything For You" (go read it !). Love you Kitten ! :)  
> So, sorry for the many mistakes in it ^^' 
> 
> Enjoy !

                                   

**ONE LAST TIME**

 

Unity is an overestimated value.

United… Together whatever happens, whatever might happen. A perfect perspective that wasn’t that perfect. He knows this, he has even already seen this long before this moment. Unity is not something natural, it forces itself, bends the common laws of the world around them. Being its Maker’s children doesn’t mean they will escape from these laws. They all end up bending the knee under the yoke of this universal law.

Survival of the fittest.

Sacrifice the weakest link for everybody else’s salvation.

This law applies to every creature **H** e has created and to **H** imself as well, whether **H** e admits it or not.

Samael admits it for his part.

He has already seen this phenomenon. These animals, these primitive packs that progressively separate – even brutally sometimes – one creature from all the others for a simple reason, for a simplistic fear. Do not be slowed down by this weakened, wounded or dying being. Do not let themselves dragged into its fall. It is this law, its proper application, that matters before anything else.

The pack before anything else, anyone else.

That’s the way it is.

Beasts, superior beings… There’s no real difference between them. They all harbor this same primitive instinct of self-preservation.

Samael admits this, he can’t do otherwise. This is what’s happening here. At the moment. His pack, his family… that is rejecting him like a wounded, dangerous animal and, thus, also becoming a danger for the perfect unity that binds their equally perfect community. But he well might think about this over and over again; as far as he knows, he doesn’t _feel_ that way. Oh, the shackles that squeeze his wrists in a very uncomfortable angle bring some change in his bodily integrity, for sure. These ties holding his hands in his back and constantly pulling on the joint of his shoulders; this restriction is not really pleasant. The cold iron biting the skin of his wrists isn’t better, of course, but he remains the same anyway.

Doesn’t he?

But that’s just the difference.

He didn’t know that kind of physical suffering until this day. He knows the pain, a tiny part of it; fleeting and accidental. An unfortunate consequence from distraction, from predictable mistakes or hasty moves during his training, vital for the achievement of their mission – his and his other siblings. Non-serious wounds quickly forgotten under Raphael’s touch or their Mother’s sweet palms once the training was over.

This thick blood that soaks his ripped clothes, which drops on the ground and spreads into a twisty form where his body – previously mauled by this strong community – is dragged without real concern about his well-being. It looks like one of those dusky red rivers with the sunset all over this new world below… Beautiful, strange, captivating. And different. This red smear here is not a scratch.

The reason isn’t the same. It’s different.

He changes everything.

He changed everything.

It’s him, Samael, who is the one here only responsible for this change, for this unusual pain. And it’s probably because he dared to bring it and inflict it to the others as well as himself that he is now rejected from the rest of the divine pack.

Samael can’t take his eyes off this fleeting red line that follows him, that escorts him and marks for a time his presence in this place. At least, it will remain a trace of his passing, of his life in this City… He stares at it and can’t help thinking about this almost identical streak, bigger though, which had followed him and Baraquiel under the crown of trees, far away from the battlefield. That streak that had largely spread under his dying brother… It had almost mesmerized him; how was it possible that a such frail, young body contain so much blood that was flooding endlessly around their both bodies – one supported by the other? He had tried to hold it back by pressing his hands on the gaping wound, his wings hadn’t helped him either. Nothing had been able to stop this endless runoff, the flow of his own fault on that muddy ground. Samael can still see that weary smile on his brother’s lips; blue-stained and almost motionless on his pale face. He can see his lips moving, whispering his last words before freezing, still smiling and surrounded by this red stretch.

What did he say?

He tries hard but can’t remember clearly. His entire mind remains obsessed by this streak in front of him just as the previous one. He only sees that line which marked the earth, which completely pervaded it; former possession of the angels lying on it, all unable to keep it inside them, to breathe, to smile again.

So many of them lying on this wild land and only a few still standing. Only a few on his side, but still so many on **H** is.

_His_ side…

Samael has intentionally broken with his family, hasn’t he? No one forced him to do so. How wonderful switch roles is this. Now his family accepts this separation when he fears it.

He who feared absolutely nothing and no one.

Fearing his Father? Never. Or just very occasionally, which may be “never”. Fearing the harsh looks of his oldest brothers when he dared to directly clash with them? No, of course not. Fear doesn’t fit with his temperament. It doesn’t before, not before his decision, not before this separation and this… tragedy a few thousand meters below.

Samael tries to turn his head as much as possible; the strong arm that crushes his throat doesn’t help a lot. He turns his head and tries to see Michael’s face who doesn’t seem to care if he strangles him or not in the process. That would be a shame, killing him so foolishly. Even unfortunate when you know what awaits him further. And especially when you know how much Michael cares about their **F** ather’s will.

He can’t see his blue eyes. He can only see those wet traces along his cheeks, his last tears for the brother he was, and who he wouldn’t be soon; his tears for all those destroyed by his hands. The print of sorrow sacrificed to divine duty. A duty that Samael couldn’t, didn’t want to follow.

It doesn’t matter that much now who’s the most responsible between them both for the situation.

The final result remains the same.

They both lost.

And despites that, Samael is still crying when Michael had stopped for a while. Maybe he should be ashamed of it, but he’s not. There is no shame in crying; not for the good reasons. And there is a really good reason here. But what a show it must be for all the others; him, the proud archangel Samael, who shows his fear and his grief to the victors… It certainly worth’s the shot. He can see all those faces, all those looks on him, on his quiet tears. Those who perished were also looking at him. He thinks about their face, those proud looks, sometimes scared or even filled with hope. Eyes, faces that he never would see again for most of them.

What is **H** e going to do with their remains?

Death was so far away from their existence before all this. No one thought of being bring face to face with it so directly one day; they were all so powerful, immortal; why should they have feared such a thing? It should never have touched them that close.

Baraquiel, Asael, Liliael, Suriel… What will happen to their bodies? What will **H** e do with them?

Samael cares more about their fate than that of the few survivors following him in his disgrace. Or that rather get in ahead of him. He can hear their screams of terror, of rage and despair – sometimes the three at one time – at some distance before him. That is where Michael leads him unceremoniously, helped by other **F** ather’s believers and Samael’s objectors. He can’t see but he can hear them. They who scream their helplessness, thrown towards that void, that terrible place below; a place even lower than the moor devastated by the rebellion.

This rebellion screamed one last time because it is the only thing to do.

Samael should have fallen first, he wouldn’t have discussed this decision.

_First to rebel, first to fall._

But God’s word is law. And God says that the renegades blinded by his selfish ambition would be the firsts to fall, so that he understands the full extent of his fault towards **H** im, towards all of them. Let them fall before he does, and let him hear his mistake rip the skies up, those skies he dared to reject; which is rejecting him as a fair return.

_“Sweet revenge, Dad.”_

Samael couldn’t have been that smart and sneaky.

Oh yes, hearing these screams is terrible, as much as this battle was, the cries of pain and death all around him. But these looks are even more terrible, the reaction of all the others, those who chose the side of victors, who preferred their **F** ather to him. This hatred pointed at him; that deformed lips formerly smiling at him as a sign of affection, for one of his jokes, a lovely chat or a quiet moment to look a bright star falling for the rise of another – discreet but just as beautiful to see. Those lips shouting terrible things, supporting Michael to throw him towards that void, following the others… These are his brothers, sisters. His family.

When did they become that hateful against him?

And those who don’t react are worse. These few members of the pack who don’t look at him even for a moment when Samael desperately want to met their eyes. He won’t beg them; his fate is sealed, he knows that. That’s how it is.

He just wants to see their eyes one last time.

Amenadiel refuses to turn his head towards him, he’s staring without blinking – and with an impressive obstinacy – the columns in front of him. A few inches lower and he would certainly meet his younger brother’s eyes. But he isn’t moving. He’s standing still, his arms crossed on his muscular chest – as he usually does when he heartily reprimands the rest of the siblings, Samael on the top of the list. Samael notices the tension in his hands resting on his prominent forearms; he sees his fingers tense and fade the skin underneath, his fingers that are shaking from intense emotion. It must be the anger.

Amenadiel stands there, not moving, not looking.

Azrael doesn’t move further. She’s looking at him, though. Her clear eyes blurred by an equally intense emotion – it’s not anger, it’s something else; he can’t tell what exactly – but they stay on him. Her so fine hands, her hands that he used to squeeze affectionately in his before going on patrol without her because too young and too untested, are hiding her mouth. She’s shaking too, but isn’t doing the slightest move.

Yes, his **F** ather knows what **H** e’s doing here. 

Openly condemn Samael’s actions like that, condemn those who dared to listen to him and – worse still – to follow him; condemning them before him moreover… That’s the best way, the perfect one, to command respect once and for all after this single mistake in **H** is **B** ig **P** lans. All those who were already following **H** im selflessly will work twice as hard to satisfy **H** im, they will even be strengthened in their previous hatred which is now justified; Uriel seems quite overjoyed to see him being dragged like this on the ground. Samael feels that passion around his throat and wings, in these aggressive vociferations undoubtedly turned against him. And those who were hesitant before will no longer be, they will obey **H** im without question. It would be better than suffer the same fate as him. And, finally, every one of them will be afraid of being corrupted by his ideas, his ideas of freedom that he had shared with the others without meaning any arm.

That’s the truth.

But the truth doesn’t concern many people from now on.

_“Well-played Dad, really…”_

**H** is Father’s eyes are the only thing that Samael doesn’t want to find in the crowd. **H** e’s here, somewhere; proud of **H** imself and giving rise to **H** is **D** ivine **S** plendor, galvanizing the pack and driving to despair the others. He just has to move his head a little bit and he will see **H** im, for sure.

No.

He doesn’t want to see **H** im.

He’s trying to find her.

His mother.

Samael looks around him, tries to find her, but doesn’t. Where is she?

“Mum…” he whispers, exhausted.

He can’t see her, he can’t hear her take his defense body and soul as she has always done. Why is that? Running away from a fight with her husband doesn’t look like her, especially when it comes to her children. It doesn’t look like her. She can’t be agreed with his **F** ather; that’s impossible.

He wants to see her. Samael turns his head again and again, without being able to find her among all these faces; sometimes hateful, sometimes terrified.

She should be here, preventing him from what’s happening. So why isn’t she here fiercely fighting for her children that are thrown into the void?

Why doesn’t she fight for him?!

He starts laughing; softly first and then more frankly. He laughs, those same emotionally divided looks answering him. Oh no, he doesn’t make fun of them, they don’t have to worry about that.

He’s making fun of him, that’s all.

Samael laughs because he realizes he’s spending his very last moment in this city that he wished to leave behind.

He laughs because all this, all this deception… This is what he always wanted. He finally gets what his heart has desired for so long. No more missions, no more orders from his elders, his **F** ather and mother. No more. He would never see them again, obviously.

It was over; and that was all he had ever wanted.

His ribs make him suffer and torment him harder, seemingly not been fond of his hysterical laughter. He coughs, loses his voice and struggles to catch his breath, keeping smiling contentedly.

**_“Throw him into the Flames! May he taste that freedom claimed in his name! May he taste with his lips the blood and shame of my daughters and sons, all damned by this same devious mouth!”_** shouts All-Mighty God.

**H** is voice echoes all around him, making tremble the walls, columns and angels gathered in the place. It makes tremble the skies and Earth, but not Samael who keeps smiling. He would gladly have applauded for such eloquence if he hadn’t been restrained like he was right now.

Is he already arrived at the edge of the abyss?

He hadn’t noticed they had moved that fast – or being dragged that fast, to be honest. He can now feel the gust of the skies lashing the back of his neck. It’s a pleasant sensation when you stop thinking about the dizzying fall that will follow. He doesn’t know for how long he will fall before joining the others where they had been thrown as well. He can’t hear them scream for a while now, so the fall must be pretty long. Michael’s grip loosens around his throat, as the other’s grip around his limbs, and he falls to the ground with a muffled sound.

It’s painful… Anyway…

He no more even tries to look at the crowd, to find his mother or beg Michael who is leaning towards him. He turned away from these stupid hopes that no longer mean something at the edge of the abyss. He doesn’t pay attention to others; neither theirs screams nor Michael near him. His skinned face is now turned to the skies stretching as far as the eye can see. To the clouds overlapping, joining together and then moving away like they want; and the impulsive whims of the wind. This wind barely touching his face, his weary smile, the blood flowing from his body, running along his cheek. Touching his tears and wiping them off from the rest of the world.

He will miss all this. A lot.

Samael waits for his punishment; unshaken, soothed by the blast of air that hopefully swallowing the weary cries of the community behind him.

Nothing is happening, though.

Curiosity prevails over his will and Samael looks at Michael. He seems reluctant to take the plunge, his fists are tensed against his tights, waiting for… well, Samael has no idea, actually.

Why hesitate?

Michael wasn’t that reluctant to act when he killed the others, when he almost killed him. So, why now, when comes the end of his mission always more important than the rest? More important than his brother lying at his feet without resistance and bleeding to death because God asked it so.

Maybe he needs a hand?

Samael smiles at him defiantly, knowing that Michael hates this.

“Want some help, hm?”

He doesn’t like this. Even less after this terrible tragedy. Samael knows that. Michael’s features instantly change, the hesitation swept away from his tensed face, frozen with new determination. His eyes – the ones he wanted to see before – no longer show the slightest emotion. Samael’s smile widens as his brother leans towards him again and grabs his clothes. He smiles and touches with his fingertips the white floor warmed up with sunlight.

This is the last time.

Michael begins to lift him from the floor and Samael enjoys the stretching of the fabric under his brother’s hands, the sharp friction against his skin…

This is the last time.

He looks at Michael; his face, his eyes…

This is the last time.

And Samael takes a long, almost relaxed breathing that misleads his brother about his current state of mind when his heart holds the truth, painfully beating in his chest.

This is the last time.

The screams, the tears, the cries of joy… He must listen to them carefully. Mark them in his mind and never forget this very last family reunion. Michael is holding him with one hand, his entire body at the mercy of the skies, the wind rushing into the fabric of his clothes, in his hair and his feathers.

His wings won’t save him from that fall. That’s a fact.

He lifts his head and watches the sun pierce the thick mantle of clouds. Is it the morning already? Or the evening maybe? That would almost make sense when you know that his end is near. Seeing this star makes sense; Samael is the one who created it, after all. Seeing it one last time makes sense, in a way. He enjoys the shy warmth that touches his cheeks, then his entire face. He let himself being bedazzled by its rays, enjoying its Light, which is also his. Which had been his then.

One last time.

He can feel it, endure it, feed himself with it one last time.

Samael shuts his eyes and stays focus on his beaming memory. He’s still smiling, barely feeling that last tear running down his cheek and finish its run on his executioner’s hand. He feels Michael shaking, though; a slight tremor coming through his limbs and along his spine. He’s wondering why he’s shaking like that; does Michael haven’t much strength? That would be surprising, knowing the guy. He is more the type to show his entire power on Samael.

He doesn’t usually like it, but their situation here is quite different just as his state of mind. Samael doesn’t make the slightest move or insult him; he’s just waiting.

**_“Fulfill my will, Michael!”_ **

Well, that was predictable.

Their **F** ather never had a lot of patience; **H** e runs out of it since a long time. Michael shouldn’t make **H** im wait so long, nor the others as well; including Samael, but his desires no longer matter, are they?

_“Fulfill, fulfill and keep still.”_

This short sentence sums up his entire life pretty well.

Samael is waiting for his brother to make up his mind. And he’s not the only one. Impatience begins to win the assembly – it has won God long before them -, it wins him, too. It seems to spare Michael, curiously. Is he hoping that he begs for his life like others did? Is he secretly hoping that he begins to struggle and yells insults to him, making him easier to kill him? Well, he will have to wait quite a long time for that. Infinitely, even.

The tension at the level of his chest, where his elder brother’s fingers almost tear the fabric, loosens when Samael expects it the least.

Finally.

Although he has sworn to no longer look at Michael and the divine pack – at that life that is no longer his -, Samael looks anyway.

He can’t help himself. Resisting the temptation… this is definitely not his thing.

His eyes widen in disbelief as he finds his brother’s silhouette; ramrod straight, as proud as he has always been, but with something different. Something that doesn’t look like him. Samael stared at him, staring at the doubt in Michael’s blurred eyes.

A moment goes; quiet – just for him, the sounds, the screams… he can no longer hear them -, much longer than it should be. A moment that pulls apart this sudden loosening and the gravitational attraction of void beneath him. A moment when his eyes pull up from his and hold on to his outstretched hand. On Michael’s wrist wrapped with a hand that isn’t his; fine and familiar. Wrapped with fingers that have so often wiped away Samael’s tears, healed his wounds, watched his sleep, supported him…

Samael stares at that hand.

He stares at his mother, proud and ramrod straight, too. He watches her standing quietly behind Michael. She is also looking at him, she’s not shaking or crying.

She is just looking at him.

And then time returns to normal, fast and brutal.

The wind whistles along his sides as he lets himself fall. His smile is still on his lips, soon engulfed by his bursts of laughter.

Samael is laughing.

He is roaring with laughter, looking her straight as long as he could. He is laughing – one last time – before he feels himself falling for good, finally being pushed aside by the rest of the pack, his eyes finally giving up against the relentless power dragging him down.

He’s laughing.

Those hands that carried him into this world are now dropping him to a different place.

And this is it… Hell.

Samael laughs, laughing that he could have been so afraid of what was awaiting him downstairs.

He laughs because he realizes there’s nothing to fear from Hell.

He’s already there.

And Samael welcomes the ending fall of that terrible truth with a wider smile.

 

 

**_TBC with;_** _“What if…”_

                                                                                                                                                              


	2. What if

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your lovely comments !   
> I’m a bit stressed lately; a lot of work and my cat sick now… I need a break - -‘ And your comments, of course XD  
> As I promised ; the second and last chapter.   
> Still not beta-checked (It will come later ^^) and still very sorry about the grammatical mistakes. 
> 
> Music advice : Matt Maeson – Grave Digger (stripped)

**WHAT IF**

 

 

The fall is never-ending. Blinding, even.

To such an extent that he doesn’t feel anymore, not even the wind which is supposed to cut his ribs more strongly than before. He doesn’t feel anything along his limbs, his face, along his partially opened lips, but-

He _feels_ anyway.

The pain is consuming him from the inside.

He can’t tell where it comes from, he can’t see it. That’s impossible, he can’t see either. He’s blind, mute… stripped of his five senses for a reason he doesn’t know. Is it a punishment? Wasn’t it terrible enough for his **F** ather to make him fall? Is it necessary to take everything’s left from him?

He _feels_ anyway.

He feels this cadenced pressure on his chest; that fire ravaging his lungs stripped of the slightest breath. He feels this lack of breath, he feels that it’s eluding him, struggling together with the pain that paralyses him. All this air around him… All this air that rejects him.

This is stupid.

He feels all this and nothing at once.

He sees this bright light all around him, but remains nevertheless blind to the smallest details.

He hears this strong buzzing, but remains deaf to everything around.

He tastes the ferrous smell of his own blood, but tastes nothing more than that.

A fall as unique as odd.

How long will it last?

There must be an end to this, right?

**_“-up.”_ **

What is this?

This new sound grazes him and vanishes as quickly, to such an extent that he’s not sure he really hears it. It would hardly be surprising that his mind begins to act up, after all. But it comes back. Stronger, longer and all around him.

**_“-fer.”_ **

It sounds like a kind of echo; sometimes vague, sometimes blaring.

An intelligible sound he would have gladly ignored if the pain didn’t seem to eagerly answer to this call. He doesn’t feel anymore; he’s enduring it, he lets himself being tormented by this repeated suffering against his torso, around his lungs, helpless. He can’t do anything against it.

**_“-eathe!”_ **

What?

It’s pure agony, the pain is everywhere; in this pressure and that sound that is thickening in the air, that is screaming and whispering to his ears at once.

**_“Breathe! Come on!”_ **

_Breathe?_

Why not.

How is he supposed to do that?

**_“Come back, please.”_ **

He knows that voice, he’s sure of it.

He has to come back, but where should he go? _How_ can he go there?

The pain is simply unbearable now; it’s setting fire to his lungs, to his heart… The feel of a upcoming explosion to which he can’t be unresponsive. He needs to expel it, to get rid of it.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Then comes the foretold explosion. Everywhere. His body, his senses hitherto gagged… He leaves the nothingness and finds himself assailed with increased ferocity.

Not so sure that “ _breathe”_ was the best solution to his problem. 

He hears; that voice, and another one. A breathing that struggles to continue. A constant row behind him.

He feels; the blazing in his chest, his painful heartbeats. Those vibrations along his numb limbs; that’s terrible. He would have been a wandering soul without a real sheath that it wouldn’t have surprised him.

He feels and hears, but he still can’t make a move.

“-ou hear me?”

Is it talking to him?

Sensations, noises, voices… That’s confusing, so strong and nauseating that he can barely hold it. He can’t remember being so much in pain by just breathing.

Strange.

This numbness, this pain… Maybe he’s finally arrived?

Maybe.

He never goes to Hell before; he only very occasionally observed it from a distance, at a much safer distance than this intense proximity.

He’s surprised he didn’t feel anything; such a fall… You must feel something about it. But the situation is such strange that not feeling anything - even after this presumed crash with the infernal heath - doesn’t seem so extraordinary.

“-fer? Listen to me-”

Easier said than done.

Everything is so loud. Too loud. Too much, it’s too much to bear. He can’t-... This isn’t-...

_“Damn it!”_ muttered this other voice, a man just as familiar.

That voice expresses     some struggle he can’t define; blinded and tormented as he is right now. He’s also struggling, he can’t tell against what exactly. His own body? This fire ravaging his throat as well as his lungs? This light that weighs upon his eyes?

He’s not even sure to have his eyes opened.

“I’m trying to help you, Goddam-!”

Help him? Really? By torturing him like this? He’s seen better _help._

“Lucifer.”

The other voice.

He tries to focus on it, beyond this endless struggle and unbending suffering. The task is not easy.

“Lucifer, it’s me; Chloe. Try to take a long, deep breath, okay?”

But-...

“It’ll help you, I promise.” said the voice again. “Just breathe. Slowly.”

Really?

He doubts he can do this, the pain won’t leave him even for a moment and comes beneath his ribs with each of his desperate attempt to catch a tiny portion of air. Doing it more slowly can’t be the solution.

It can’t be that simple, can it?

He makes a first shy try, the pressure around his chest also trying to fudge his move before submitting to it reluctantly. It’s difficult, painful; but already more tolerable.

“That’s it.” her voice supports him. “Go on.”

“Come on, man… Come on.”

A death rattle, another inhaling, deeper than the previous one and the fire is gradually contained. He can finally feel the air tickling the inside of his throat, fulling his lungs without any other pain than a brief discomfort that is so light it’s ridiculous.

The world darkens, becomes clearer, less insane.

He blinks, his eyes burning a lot; but he can finally see. He stares at the spotless white ceiling, the fuzzy shapes leaning over him and sometimes swallowed by the light above; only reappearing in his field of vision a moment later.

“Easy, Lucifer! Just take slow breaths, it’s okay.”

He doesn’t really listen to these fuzzy shapes and looks around; he looks at his body. His hands, palms turned towards the ceiling, on this cold ground touched by other shapes.

Are those… _feet?_ How strange is that.

He watches his chest rise, his shirt wide open, an icy breath stinging his skin. He shivers strongly and let his head fall against the floor; this head full of interrogations. It’s so confusing in his mind, just as his sensations. He hardly swallows; he’s still panting and his chest keeps fighting to maintain his breathing.

“Lucifer? _Hey…_ ”

He shuts his eyes and feels for the first time this wet mark along his cheeks; which continues, which doesn’t run dry. Something softer is covering that mark; covering his cheeks. His head is spinning, he’s feeling nauseous, but he opens his eyes anyway; two narrow gaps that let a single picture filter.

The lightness that breaks through the fog.

He focuses on that face, those thine hands, those lips that ask him to listen; just a little bit.

Just what is necessary.

And he finally understands.

“Hey…It’s okay. We got him.” Chloe reassures him by wiping away his tears. “You’re safe now, it’s okay.”

It’s okay.

He understands; he understands that the fall has stopped a long time ago. He realizes that he has never fallen, not recently at least, except this slight fall that is still tormenting the back of his skull. He stares at the detective, according his breathing with hers.

He never fell.

He is not falling.

“It’s okay.” repeats Chloe as the backup arrive inside the room.

It’s okay.

It’s okay.

 

**-xXx-**

 

He’s okay.

It might seems incredible, but he is. No matter how much he has repeated it, each person he might have met since the last hour won’t trust this very simple truth. That’s a fact; Lucifer is okay. He concedes that having been poisoned earlier by a toxic gas with surprising effects may be a reason to worry; as much as the heart failure that followed, but-

_He is okay._

The gas hasn’t acted on him for a while now and his heart strongly beats in his chest as it has always done since the beginning of time. He doesn’t hide the fact that this was pretty trying; physically speaking, but it’s circumstantial. An explanation called “Detective”, or “Chloe” to her friends. A few meters between each other, a glass of bourbon and every  traces of pain, exhaustion or any other physical disorder will disappear. It’s not by dint for auscultation, more stupid questions or serious warning about going to the hospital that it will change something. Why do they want to find a problem at all costs? This is a waste of time, for him as for them.

“I’m okay.” he repeats for the twentieth time with a kind smile. “Thank you for your concern.”

Apparently, twenty brings luck. The man who was checking his vitals seems finally concede that his patient doesn’t need real medical care in the near future; the worst is over, as his utility here. He nods and turns to see his colleagues driving a taken stretcher to the second ambulance further down the parking lot, its rotating lights piercing regularly the darkness of the night.

Lucifer is watching, too.

He watches the unconscious critically-ill man; just like his previous victims, like Lucifer was earlier. All this just not to be taken alive. Or not to deal with the Devil’s wrath. Both were really stupid. If he lives, he will ends the rest of his life in prison, thinking about his own fear over and over again because he used the other’s fears to murder them. If he dies, he won’t avoid incarceration either. A rather different kind of prison, for sure - a suffocating, repetitive and so much more nightmarish place than his pathetic gaseous tricks. Another kind of jailers, longer punishment - eternal, actually - that would make him regret the human world.

 

Human justice - obviously flawed - or divine justice…

 

The choice is simple, isn’t it?

Lucifer just hopes he’ll succumb to his injuries, although he knows that those kind of desires wouldn’t please his partner, so straight, so moral and naive. But Lucifer _knows._ He knows what’s waiting this man down there. Oh, he so much hopes hearing his end, he wants to see and feel his soul cross the Threshold to a darker and amazingly nightmarish destination. He wants to see fear on his face for a _very_ long time; and that will never end.

The fear; sheer and bestial.

Too bad he swore to never come back to his Kingdom of Fire and Blood.

Lucifer lets out a disdainful exclamation as he follows the noisy procession of rescuers with his eyes. The man near him doesn’t notice it, also occupied by this vision and his professionalism. He quickly walks away from his devilish patient, wanting to help them somehow. Lucifer doesn’t stop him, he keeps staring at this dying murderer with a strong disdain.

That man…

How could he have thought to know everything about fear, the real one?

How could he have thought to inflict it on him; the Devil?

Ridiculous.

_“Throw him into the Flames!”_

He shudders.

It’s just the wind.

No wonder he’s cold; with his Armani suit jacket gone and his shirt opened on Los Angeles nocturnal breeze. He moves his hands to his chest, wanting to put his clothing in order. His hands are slightly shaking, not enough to really mean something but enough to trouble him.

It’s just the wind.

Just the wind.

Lucifer swallows and rubs his hands together with a blank stare.

_“Throw him!”_

He takes a deep breath, grimacing when he feels again some tension where Daniel has tried - quite roughly - to bring him back to life. How it must be with the women…

He rubs his sore ribs and shuts his eyes, absent-mindedly catching snatches of conversation a few feet away, the hurried or slower steps from other people on the crime scene.

“Is it just a hobby or an odd coincidence that you always imperil yourself?”

He opens his eyes and looks at the detective who has approached him without he notice. Her voice is expressing a deep annoyance, but Lucifer hears further than that. He knows she’s still worried about him. He knows she’s feeling bad.

This is how she is; guilt is a human feeling, it appears.

As much as telling him off for doing the only thing to do.

“It depends who’s my savior.” he replies, lowering his hand that was remained against his sore side.

“I thought you invulnerable.”

“It depends.”, repeats Lucifer without any other explanation.

Chloe shakes her head; she is angry.

Right.

“You can’t play with your life like that, Lucifer.” she tries again.

“I’m invulnerable, you said it yourself, Detective.” he politely interrupts her with a smile as he begins to button up his shirt.

Who the hell pulls off the half of it?!

“You can’t play with your life.” she insists. “Yours as ours!”

He stares at her, confused.

“I didn’t-”

“Like hell you didn’t! Your rushed headlong bring face to face with **_our_** suspect without even telling **_me_** or Dan. You had no idea what was waiting for you in there! You fell into his trap as we could have fallen into it while coming rescue you - We could have died; the three of us! It’s lucky that the gas was almost gone when we found you…”

She stops talking and glares at him. He doesn’t like the way she’s looking at him and he looks away, feeling uncomfortable. He could answer to her, but he doesn’t want to. He just wants to go home and have a drink before going to bed. His fingers are playing with what’s left from his studs and he nods slightly without a word.

“Apologies, Detective. I thought I could handle this on my own without risk your life. It appears that I have slightly overestimated my strength here.“ he says, giving her a faint smile while he’s still pretty tensed.

She is still glaring at him, hesitant. Lucifer is sincere, she knows that. Lying doesn’t look like him; it never does. She takes a deep breath, looking far away, and releases the tension that was inside her body until then. She finally lowers her arms along her sides, accepting her partner’s apologies and comes to sit next to him in the back of the ambulance.

They stay like that; silent and peaceful. Lucifer looks up and sighs. A sky without a tiny clouds – this isn’t common at that time of the year. He can see each of the stars prick the timeless ink of the skies above them.

“I’m glad you’re fine.”

Lucifer looks down at Chloe. His eyes don’t leave hers; seized by the shy gleam inside them, the spark of an emotion that he's trying, is afraid to name.

“Don’t do this to me again. Ever…Deal?”

“Deal.”

It’s difficult for him to hold her gaze, to hold that emotion threatening to overwhelm him so easily… Lucifer looks away much more quickly than he wants and becomes quiet again. He doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t want to say anything else.

There’s nothing else to say.

But he knows her too well. As she does.

They both know what happened. They’re partners; a combined and unavoidable knowledge about the investigation, the cause of death and the murder weapon. He would have willingly done without it. He would have preferred to leave some doubts about what happened to him; no sure thing, no more questions. It is that simple. It could have.

He won’t be able to discourage her; she’s far too tenacious. And he won’t be able to dodge; not very long, at least. He doesn’t lie; that’s the problem.

He never lies.

“Lucifer-”

He shuts his eyes, defeated.

“-what did you see?”

He keeps his eyes shut, just like his mind. He doesn’t want to think about this. He doesn’t want to think at all; just feel the wind, that peaceful night around, the detective’s presence near him.

He doesn’t want anything else.

_“Fulfill my Will!”_

Nothing more.

Talking about this won’t make any good to him or his partner. Lucifer is the Devil; her partner. A terrifying legend…

What’s the point to demystify this?

Fear takes its power from its recognition. Ignoring it is the only thing to do.

It will pass… With time.

Time wipes off everything . It has wiped off his name, his former life; why not this?

It will pass, wiped off with a blast of air like the gas that brought it inside him and inside the other victims. Lucifer is certain about that; he can’t sacrifice that for a simple human. That would be stupid.

Chloe sighs beside him; she thinks she lost the fight - he didn’t know it was. Lucifer has still not opened his eyes, and he doesn’t want to. He can feel her standing up, looking at him for a moment. She begins to walk away, feeling uncomfortable with his quiet “no”.

“I better get going and check what’s Dan-”

“I was falling.”

“What?”

Chloe turns to Lucifer when he opens his eyes.

“I saw me falling.” he whispers.

_“Oh.”_

That’s all the detective answers to him. She doesn't know what to say and that’s fine; how could she understand the hidden meaning of his words? How could she understand this fear that is eating up from the inside? She can’t. She never will.

But it doesn’t matter.

Now that he breaks the silence… It’s probably best to continue.

“I was falling and-... There was no one to catch me. Who would want to, right?” he says with a bitter exclamation. “That was rather the opposite. They were dragging me to the void. Do you even know what you feel when you’re thrown into the void, Detective? The _real_ void?”

She remains quiet and Lucifer doesn’t wait an answer. He continues.

“You can’t breathe. You can’t even remember how; your own breathing is like a stranger. It is swallowed by the void, the fear. This fear that is gripping you and won’t let you go… It’s the only thing that takes you and yet, it won’t protect you from the fall itself. It pushes you into it with such satisfaction! The wind digs into your body, it rips your limbs and you’re suffocating… Isn’t that ironic? You fear the end of this fall but-... you desire it with all your heart.”

Lucifer hates the unwanted tremor in his voice with this last sentence.

He hates the wind.

He hates that man lying on the stretcher.

he hates them all.

He doesn’t want to see the concern on the detective’s face; no more than this other expression - doubts. He doesn’t want to see her doubt.

Not now.

He’s still looking down, slowly shaking his head; surprised to feel that fear deep inside him, to feel it on his lips and say other insane words.

“What if I fall once more?”

He’s laughing; he’s trying to. But his throat his shaking too, he can only let out this trembling exclamation filled with some stupid emotions.

This is stupid.

He won’t fall. Never again.

This is behind him.

“You won’t.”

Lucifer lifts his head and stares at Chloe’s quiet expression who is still standing a few steps from him. There is no doubt; only the truth. A truth that doesn’t dare to approach him, this isn’t _his_ truth. It can’t be a lie either.

Not coming from her.

He is looking at her, trying to see this truth beyond her calm expression, beyond the breeze, the fear. He’s trying strain to find it.

“How can you be so sure?”

How, when there was just doubt everywhere from his side?

How?

The answer - this truth - was simple; it was here, right in front of him. In that smile, the breeze brushing their skin, the look they were sharing, the doubt she was hushing inside him. Without even touching him, with nothing more than a few words.

Simple. True. Undeniable.

“Because I’ll catch you before you fall.”

 

**_THE END_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading ! I hope you like this last part.   
> Let me know with a comment/kudos/bookmarks/subscriptions or on tumblr/twitter.   
> For my writing ; I’ve almost finished to write “In a New Light” in French, so the translation will come, I promise.   
> See you soon :3

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still translating the last chapter. It will come soon (checked or not)  
> I hope you liked this first one despite the grammatical mistakes. Sorry about that ^^
> 
> As usual, let me know what you think about the chapter and the story so far. 
> 
> One more thing,  
> I recently created a blog on tumblr. I post there some previews/songs/videos about my writings. You can take a look if you want :)  
> Here's the link (also available on my profile) : https://www.tumblr.com/blog/oncewritingalwayswriting
> 
> See you soon everyone !


End file.
